"But really," she repeated, breaking into a smile. "Now do promise me
that you will never fight that horrid man again."

He spread out his hands. "How can I promise you such a thing! It is not
the fashion in France to suffer insults in silence."

"Did he insult you, then?"

Again he stiffened. "He insulted me--yes. And I, I struck him. _Après
cela_--" again the expressive shrug, and no more.

"But how did he insult you?" persisted Chris. "Couldn't you have just
turned your back, as one would in England?"

"No" Sternly he made reply. "I could not--turn my back."

"It's ever so much more dignified," she maintained.

The dark eyes flashed. "Pardon!" he said. "There are some insults upon
which no man, English or French, can with honour turn the back."

That fired her curiosity. "It was something pretty bad, then? What was
it, Bertie? Tell me!"

"I cannot tell you," he returned, quite courteously but with the utmost
firmness.

She glanced at him again speculatively, then, with shrewdness: "When men
fight duels," she said, "it's generally over either politics or--a woman.